Dead Hearts
by Daughter of the North
Summary: 24 went in; 2 came out. We know the stories of the Victors, but who were the fallen before they were cursed to the Arena? A series of one shots depicting each of the twenty four, told by the people who knew them best.
1. Proud

**Suzanne Collins owns the characters. _I _****own none of this. Reviews are cherished, and encouraging:) Please drop me a line if you enjoy this. Let me know if I should continue.**

* * *

_They were kids that I once knew. Now they're all dead hearts to you._

- _Dead Hearts by The Stars_

* * *

**PROUD**

He was a leader, that one.

I smile as I look at the little student. Everyone respected the boy with blue eyes and an easy smile. He was eager to please, doing exactly what he was told. On the first day of school, when every kid came into class dressed and ready, one boy in a blue shirt had stood out. He had grinned and run up to me, lunch pail clutched in his hands.

"Hello teacher!" he had exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with eagerness.

"Hello," I had replied as I did to every student, "Are you excited?"

"I'm ready," the reply was solid with conviction, his face forming a look of concentration, "Mommy says that I am going to make her proud."

"I'm sure you will," I assure, nearly laughing at his enthusiasm.

"I'll go find my seat," he spoke, flashing me one more dimpled smile before hurrying to a small table, filled with other children giggling together. Even though I was welcoming the other students, I glanced at the table more than the others. Í found that I couldn't fight my eyes away from him.

The boy didn't laugh, but he would smile and speak earnestly with the rest. His face crumpled into a tight red mass of wrinkles as another little girl said something he didn't like. Clearly disgusted, he frowned and turned away from her. I nearly laughed as the others at the table looked at him in confusion. The one who incited his wrath cocked her head to the side, clearly befuddled by his anger. It didn't last long. A diplomatic word by another boy and he was nearly back to normal; talking again about something, intelligent eyes flashing everywhere, taking in everything. He was a bright boy. You could tell just by looking at him.

When I announced that it was time to sing the anthem, he leapt out of his chair and belted the song out with all his being, his body straining to be louder, deeper, better than everyone around him. The effect it left on the class was interesting; they looked at him with fledgling respect. A certain admiration.

As a way to introduced the children to one another, I asked them to tell us a little about themselves. Just a tiny bit in front of the class, just what they wanted to be when they grew up. Some spoke of being masons, or carvers, or the adventures they would have doing things for the Capitol. Most spoke of becoming peacekeepers. I would smile and shake my head, knowing few would be worthy of that honor. Being a peacekeeper was hard work, despite what they seemed to think.

When it was his turn, the boy said, as seriously as possible. "I want to make my mother proud of me."

That was when I knew I was going to lose him. I smiled at him, seeing his potential as if for the first time. I was incapable of teaching this boy, of that much I was certain. All I could prepare him for was work from the Capitol, and one look into his eyes told you that he did not deserve that. He, with such a determination, was to be sent to the peace keepers? To become a mason? A carver? No, not this boy. He had a chance to be something great. So I called the principal during recess.

The next day, a man came into the classroom and asked me to speak with my student. I obliged, looking at the little boy who I was about to give to someone better than I. When I called him from the front of the classroom, he looked up from the chalk board he had been frowning over and hurried up to me, obedient as ever. The man spoke to him at my desk in hushed whispers, then nodded towards me. I knew what I had to do. Excited beyond belief, I hurried over to the phone to call his mother.

"Ma'am?"

I heard the sound of a shift in the background, all industrial clanging and grinding. I also heard the worry in her voice. "What happened?"

"Your son was chosen for the Academy!" I said, giddy.

A silence. Then "I'll be right there."

I frowned at the click of the phone and looked up for my student, but he was no longer in my small dingy room. I sighed and returned to teaching my class. A small voice whispered about all the children that went and came back in boxes, but I banished that from my head. My little pupil _would_ come back. If he had potential, it was a crime to keep him here among children who couldn't survive. I pacified my rebellious thoughts. In a way I was saving all of them. If he, who could win, went, these, who didn't have a chance, would survive.

After school ended, I practically ran to the office, where a little boy who had been given a chance was sitting on a wooden bench, swinging his feet and biting his lip. I sat next to him. "Are you excited?" I asked, looking at the tears not yet spilled in his eyes.

"I am going to have to leave my mommy," he choked out.

I nodded in understanding. He was only five after all, he wouldn't understand what an oppertunity he had been given. His whole world was his mother. "She wants you to do this," I speak softly, but he doesn't seem to hear me as he trembles.

Then she arrived, and the little boy leapt up from the bench and barreled towards her, launching into her arms and sniffing. She was crying, blond hair funky from her hard hat, arms entwined around her son's small, quaking body. I looked away. I knew this would be tough; leaving a child was never easy. But this was better for him in the long run. He would be fed and taken care of, and given a chance at a life. Not a one of drudgery, or as an enforcer. He would be given the chance to succeed. And in my very first year teaching, I had been able to ensure this for a determined little boy. I smiled as the mother whispered to her son.

The man in charge of collecting him cleared his throat loudly. "Time to go," I glared at him. Obviously, he didn't understand how hard this was for them.

"Mommy!" the boy cried, clutching closer to her.

"Listen to me," she spoke softly, stroking his hair, "Do you know something, little man? I am so proud of you. And as you go and honor your district, you honor me," she pulled back so that he could look her in the eyes. "Can you do that? Can you honor me?"

"Yes mommy," his lip quivered and he rubbed the back of his hand across his face as he set it into determination. "I will win for you, mommy!"

"I know you will," she whispered, but her eyes looked like her heart looked like it was breaking, "because you are my little man."

"Like daddy was your man?"

She smiled a somber smile though her tears. "Yes, just like that."

He smiled and kissed her, then turned to the man. The man gave a smirk to him, "You ready kid?"

"I'm ready."

Then he left, his head turned over his shoulder, brave face barely hiding tears as he set his jaw and gave a watery smile for his mom, "I will, mommy!" his blue eyes seemed desperate as he repeated himself. "I'll make you proud!"

As he got in the car, his mother began to sob. "I know Cato," she whispered as she sank to the floor, pain scrawled across her face. "I know you will."


	2. Little Sister

**Hey everyone! Sorry for the wait.**

* * *

_They were kids that I __once knew. Now they're all dead hearts to you._

_- Dead Hearts by The Stars_

* * *

**LITTLE SISTER**

"….nineteen, twenty! Ready or not, here I come!" I hear the scuffling sound as small feet scurry along the sand. I looked carefully at my little sister, through the grass ensconcing me, watching her frown and glance in between boats and cages. She turned away from where I was hiding, shifting on her toes to look towards the sea and the setting sun. Her hair whips in the wind, tangling ahead of her, creating a dramatic image that would scandalize Capitol ladies at the lack of perfection. That thought brings a smile to my face; we are not fans of the Capitol here.

I hear her exasperated sigh as she futilely shoved the offending strands behind her ears. My little sister is a daring girl, one of the strongest of all the girls her age in the village. The mild surf of the cove offers her no challenge. She is a lively girl, with eyes that sparkled like twilight stars and a smile that spoke of the sheer joy she took in living. My little sister is a spitfire, for sure. Maybe it was because she was the youngest in a family of boys. Pursing her lips in annoyance, she squinted towards the cannery. "Jo_nah_! Where are you?" she cries out, obviously frustrated.

I smirked and watched her sigh dramatically before flopping onto the sand. Usually, I hid in an obvious place, so she can find me easily, but now my little sister is 5. She's not a baby. In three short years, she will be either working with father on our fishing boat or trekking the mile-long walk before sunrise to work at the cannery.

I hope she gets to go out on the fishing boat. My little sister is not cut out to stand on a conveyor belt and hose down seafood. I didn't mind working as a dresser of fish on the beach. I was content with my knife, cleaning my father's catch as he and my elder brothers load the freshly cut fish onto ice to be carried to the plant, but my little sister craved a larger world full of adventure. She would be happy checking lines and fixing nets.

In my musing, I barely registered her sitting up and turning towards my hiding spot. She slowly stood and began to walk towards me, trying to be stealthy as she approached where I lay. I shifted farther back, watching her. She entered the patch I lurk in, brown eyes flashing over the grass that grew amid the cast-off crates and buoys. When she turns away from me, crouching down to check under an overturned dinghy, I make my move.

I leapt at her, grabbing her up in my arms and tickling her. She began giggling, halfheartedly trying to squirm away from me, but my grip held. I hoist her over my shoulder as she shrieks, her dress blowing up and revealing her worn green shorts. "Let me down! Let me _down_!" she demanded, kicking her legs as I began to walk back along the beach.

"Never," I spoke gruffly, shifting my grip so she squealed in terror as her face shifted closer to the ground.

"STOP!" she giggles, her tiny hands clutching my shorts to find a grip. "Let me walk!"

I smile as I flip her over and place her bare feet in the salty foam. She grinned up at me, her sun-tanned face partly obscured by hair. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, little limpet."

"Hey!" she looks at me indignantly, "I am not a fish."

"No," I agree, looking at her impishly, "You're not just _any_ fish. You are my fish."

"No," she stares up at me, chin jutted out defiantly. "I am not going to be a _fish_. People _eat _fish. I am going to be a fish _catcher_!"

"Ah," I nodded down at her, "Pardon my mistake. It's hard to tell, since you _are_ soaking wet."

She furrows her brow. "I am not-_hey_!" she shrieks as I scoop a handful of water up onto her head. "Jonah!" She kicks water at me, then begins to chase me, the sand spraying up behind her pounding feet. "Get back here!"

I grin and slow my strides, allowing her to catch me and throw sand at me. I smirk at her, and she laughs as I make a show of wagging my head to get the irksome particles out of my hair. She catches my hand and we begin to walk toward home.

The sun was falling fast towards the horizon, shining a vibrant orange on the deep blue water. My little sister stares, mesmerized, as the stars make their appearances, each one flicking into existence as the sun sunk into the sea. My little sister always loved twilight.

"Can we sit and watch it? Please? Just this once?" she looked up at me, eyes beseeching.

I know I have to be up before sunrise tomorrow. Mom has a shift and dad will be up early, so I have to mend the nets and watch her until dad gets home; even then he'll burdened with fish for us to clean. I should get some rest…but I want to give her this. She already has so little time to be a kid; with us all working, most of what she does is follow us around. The only fun she has is if one of us takes her out after work to play on the beach.

So I smile at her, nod, and sit down in the sand. She curls up in my lap and I wrap my arms around her, finding a comfortable position. After a few seconds, she asks "Who puts all the stars up there?"

I smile. "I think that God put them up there."

"Why?" she whispers quietly.

"So sailors could find their way."

"I don't think that is the only reason," she speaks slowly, tiredly, as she curls closer to my chest.

"Why do you think there are stars?" I ask her, genuinely curious about her answer.

"I think they are in the sky so _everybody_ can find their way," she looks up at me, "That way nobody ever gets scared."

I look at her as a slight smile slips onto her face. "I think," I whisper to her, "That you actually found the right answer Marina."

She doesn't answer me. She had already fallen asleep.


	3. Beautiful

**Suzanne Collins owns the characters. I just own their childhoods. Enjoy:)**

* * *

_They were kids that I once knew. Now they're all dead hearts to you._

- _Dead Hearts by The Stars_

* * *

**BEAUTIFUL**

"Nana! They say I'm _ugly_!"

I look up from my seat at the kitchen table towards my granddaughter. She is standing with tears pouring down her face, eyes big and stalked with grief. Her mouth is slightly open, and a soft whimper is coming out. The run home in the rain has soaked her. Mud cakes her bare feet and her skirt is splattered with a mix of dirt and cow dung. Her hair is a scraggly mess, held in a lump on the side of her hair by a piece of string. Her face is streaked with winding paths leading down her face.

I put down the mending I was doing by the light of a candle and immediately get to my feet to envelop my youngest granddaughter in my arms, wrapping my shawl around her quaking form. As soon as my arms are around her, she begins to moan, head shaking into my shoulder. "Nana, they said my face looks as round as a patty. They said that I was homely, and that I was fat. Nana, they said nobody was going to marry me. They said I should be reaped, 'cause I was so ugly that getting my face all cut up would be an improvement. They said that I was-"

"Shhhh….." I whispered, kissing her on the forehead, angry at her classmates and sad for my granddaughter. Children can be very cruel when they so desire. "It'll be fine…" I kissed her again, noticing in the back of my mind that I barely had to lean down. She was 11, and that is a hard age for anyone, even without teasing.

"Is it true, grandma?" she looked up at me, eyes searching my face while trying to blink away tears. "Is it true?"

"No, you are not ugly," I assure her gently.

"But," her forehead collapsed on my shoulder as she began sobbing again "I'm not _pretty_ either."

"Hush," I whisper, shaking her a bit, "What sort of talk is that?"

"But Nana," she lamented "I _do_ have a round face. And I _am_ chubby. And _nobody_ ever said they liked me in class; nobody-"

"Why does it matter if somebody likes you?"

She looked at me, her mouth open in pain as she took a shaky breath, "No-"

"Listen to me girl," I stare he straight in the eyes, "Looks, they are _not_ what is most important."

She looks at me, her cheeks still tear-streaked. "Nana, but people who look pretty are treated better than me. It isn't fair. It makes me feel unhappy."

I look at her and give a small sigh. It is a gift, to tell the truth, that she is not like those from the Capitol; girls like that often disappear, or get taken by Peacekeepers, with no choice…but if I tell my granddaughter that, she will not understand and feel even more upset that _I_ do not think she is beautiful enough. "It is what is in your head that counts, not outside your head."

She sits at the table, and I stand at the stove, reaching over to the shelf to grab two cups. I pour in hot water. We do not have tea, but we have passable rations of milk, and I have saved a small amount of honey I procured from quasi-legal sources stored in a tin in the cupboard. I mix those in, creating a thin, opaque beverage that I hand her, along with a hard slice of bread.

She takes a sip, savoring the honey with relish. She knows that it is a treat, but her face still registers pain. I look at her as she dips her slice in the milk, softening it, and I smile, remembering when I used to do such a thing, and my mother's following tut of disapproval. My own grandmother would smile and grin, then tell a story about people who used to dip stale bread in milk and cook it, creating something akin to a cake.

That will make her feel better; if we make such a thing, a sweet treat, we can speak. My granddaughter is a quiet child, who speaks better if her hands are working. The best way to comfort her is to give her something to do. "Do you want to help me make something?" I ask as I take a stale loaf from the cupboard.

She nods and hurriedly sips the rest of the drink. I take a pan, tell her to rip the bread, and then continue talking, "Anyone who only likes you for how you look is not a good person to be friends with," I state, pausing to work, giving her time to digest that piece of information. I mix in two eggs with the rest of our ration of milk. The house becomes quiet. My granddaughter needs time to think, time to understand things and come to terms with them. I can feel that she is still sad, but she is done crying. My granddaughter is a quiet girl by nature; I know talking the entire time we are together will not help, it will simply overwhelm her. I need to say just the right thing.

"Pretty is as pretty does, darling," I take the first chunk and dip it in the mixture. "You are a sweet, compassionate girl, smart with animals…" I trail off, glancing at her face again as I quickly dip the rest of the dish. "Anyone would be lucky to have you as a friend."

She smiles at me, a real smile, with big brown eyes that remind me of her mother's in such a way that it hurts. I turned quickly and began putting the pan in the oven, focusing on giving advice instead of crying about my lost daughter. "You want to be friends with people who see all the things that are _you_; not how you look, but how you treat other people, how you do well at school, how you take care of our animals."

She nods, and her smile disappears. "But it still feels bad, Nana."

"It will feel bad, darling, but you have to remember that it is what it inside that counts. Be friends with people who act pretty." I smile and tap her on the nose, "And boys who like girls who act pretty, they are the boys that are good to be friends with."

She blushes and giggles, looking down.

"So, when people tease you, that just means they are too dumb to actually think about how good it would be to be friends with you."

She looks at me, confused and sad. "But Imogen is the smartest person in class! And Louis is the fastest-"

"That doesn't mean anything when it comes to being people smart. You have to be nice to them; they probably don't even know they are missing out on, not seeing the insides of people," I give her a conspiratorial grin, "Beauty is fleeting, but niceness is not. When they tease you, remember that they simply don't understand how to see niceness. They need to make themselves feel better by making you worse. But don't let it hurt you; it is just like when Timothy laughs when you fall."

"But Timothy is just a baby. He can't even walk!"

"Exactly. Why would you get upset when someone who isn't nice teases your niceness?"

She looks at me and smiles, her big eyes sparkling, just like the little girl that I love. "I won't let it bother me, Nana. I promise."

"Don't promise me girl; promise yourself."

"I will."

I smile and hug her. "Just so you know, Dakota, I think you are beautiful, inside and out.

I feel her smile into my shoulder. "Thank you, Nana."

* * *

**Please Review! Have an idea for a Tribute? A critique of my style? I love ALL comments!**


	4. Helping Hand

**Hey Guys! This chapter might be edited later on, but I wanted to give you something. I do so LOVE the people who I have coming _back_ and reviewing multiple times; you guys make me smile lots! Wetstar and Ghanaperu, I love when you pop up in my review section! I'm glad you find it worth coming back for!**

**All you lurkers, I would _love_ if you would shoot me a little sentence to tell me what you think!**

**Now, to the story!**

* * *

_They were kids that I once knew. Now they're all dead hearts to you._

_- Dead Hearts by The Stars_

* * *

**HELPING HAND**

A quick breath from my lips manages to whisk away my bangs. Of course, it doesn't last; after a brief moment of respite, they are back, draping in my eyes and getting sticky from the oil on my forehead. "I need a haircut," I mutter to no one in particular.

That earns me a laugh from one of the senior mechanics, farther up the train.

I give a smirk and look back to the gadget I am working on. The polarity is all wrong, and I am struggling to readjust the balancers so the train won't catch every other bar. It is delicate work, because if it is even half an inch off, the magnetic pulses won't push the train onward at the utmost speed possible.

For some reason, this train must be _perfect. _The director made I point of telling me that, before assigning me to this car. I am not supposed to do anything short of straight-from-the-factory smoothness, unless I don't want to come back for work tomorrow.

That's a whole lot of pressure for a rookie like me.

I feel like throwing the towel in, despite the resulting loss of a job. This piece in particular has been especially ridiculous, and the fact that I have been working on it for two hours with no luck is not an encouraging sign. When the director come by again and notices that it is not done, he will be very cross.

Cross enough to dock my pay, probably. I shudder and force myself to think calmly, glancing at the sun to judge the remaining amount of time available. 30 minutes till shift's done, probably. I take a deep breath and continue to tweak the lineup. There is a gap in the panels, and no matter how I alter the sizes of sheets I put in, it is still spaced like my sisters teeth. Maybe I should just move farther up the train and pretend that it broke after it left station.

No way would that work. This particular lift is right under the dining car. It would be noticeable in moments, as fancy goblets began to slosh fancy drinks all over the fancy people who look like a paint kit exploded on them. The director will know that this is my car.

I hiss in frustration.

He probably gave it to me on purpose, hoping to get the rookie in enough trouble to fire him. The director is mean enough to do such a thing.

"Having problems buddy?"

I turn to look at the voice. It is the boy from the car below me. His face is covered in grease smudges.

"Yeah," I mutter, "Stupid thing won't calibrate right."

I hear the tattle-tale sound of wheels rolling down the track toward me. The guy positions his board next to mine, so that both our heads are directly under the machinery as he reaches up to touch the machinery. "Oh, I see," he grunts, goes down to his tool belt to grab a pair of tweezers.

"What is it?" I ask, glancing as his fingers begin to move deftly across the edge of the box.

"Well, you see that little warp in the side?" he asks, jamming his index finger into a corner crevasse.

"Yeah," I reply, taking note of the kink I hadn't noticed before.

"Well, that is not quite square," the boy gestured to the machine. "Do you have a level?"

"No."

"Oh, you must be the new kid," he gives me a smile. I nearly have to blink when faced with his teeth, which seem to glow out of his dirty face. "That is fine, you can use mine," He hands me a small metal tool in the shape of a triangle. "All you have to do is put this here in the corner," he demonstrates, "and then hammer it in a little bit. It adjusts the size."

He indicates with a nod that I am supposed to attempt it. I do, though he makes it look _way_ easier than it is. The position I am in, lying under suspended train on a wooden board, does not make it simple to swing the hammer. The force I can exert on it is not nearly enough to put it fully in the right place, so the guy adds a bit of his strength. It becomes a neat right angle.

"Now you can arrange them in there a little better," he watches me place the pieces back in with a grin. "You see that? You just fixed it."

I give a tiny grin of satisfaction as the whistle blows. "Just in time too!"

He laughs while using his hands to propel himself out from under the car. I follow him; slower, as I am not yet adept at maneuvering the cart. We stand once we are out from under the streamline train. He leaps up to standing in one motion, while I roll off and crawl to my feet awkwardly. He is ahead of me, beginning to walk off into the fading sun to go home.

"Why is it such a big deal that this train is so perfect?" I ask him as we make our way to the storage shed, "They usually aren't so picky."

His face goes dark, and he looks at me. "This is the Weeping Train."

I shudder. We all know what the Weeping Train. It is the train that the Tributes ride away from their Districts for the last time. I look back at the silver monster, then at the dining car I had fixed. "What district will this one go to?"

"Ours," he shudders, and then looks down at me. "I don't think I caught your name kid."

"My name is Mark," I smile at him, glad to change the subject, "What is yours?"

"I'm Jason."

"Thanks for helping me, Jason."

"No problem. I always try to help rookies. That is the problem with this world; nobody helps anybody else. If we all looked beyond ourselves and sacrificed a little something, Panem would be better," he gave a grin and elbowed me in the shoulder, then tossed me the little triangle. "It's yours kid; think of it like an early birthday gift."

I hold it reverently in my palm as he walked away towards his home, whistling a jaunty little tune.

* * *

**Thoughts? Comments? Ideas? **


	5. Broken

**Hello! Happy Friday!**

**This one took me a bit. Not only was it a request, but this particular angle of the story makes me think very long and hard. I needed it to be authentic, but still sympathetic, if you catch my drift. Please drop me a line if you think I handled this topic well:) **

**This is for you, EveryNewDay. Please tell me if I did your ideas justice!**

* * *

_They were kids that I once knew. Now they're all dead hearts to you._

_- Dead Hearts by The Stars_

* * *

**BROKEN**

The girl stands, towering over her older opponent, triumphant grin on her face. Her left foot holds the trembling torso of the other girl to the foam mat on the floor. The foot twitches when the girl on the bottom struggles, but she is caught, the side of her faces on the deep blue plastic as she attempts to twist out from under the weight of the winner.

It is not nearly enough.

"Weakness!" I thunder, marching purposely through the room full of ten and eleven-year-olds to the mat, barely registering the others wrestling. "What are you doing?"

He top girl looks at me, pride evident behind her lashes as her lips curl into a smile that is a mix of innocent excitement and cruel mocking. "I beat Linder," she announces tapping her toe on the girls back. By now, the victim has stopped struggling and is glaring over her shoulder at her captor.

"You have obviously only stopped Linder. You haven't beaten her," I lean towards her face. "Linder is still very much a competitor."

The child's lips twist up as they do when she is confused. "Linder," she grunts and applies more force to said girls back, "lost."

I stare in the eyes of the girl, knowing she will back down. I am a Victor of the Games, with five kills to my name. I am lethal; my stares are legendary. A ten-year-old will not cause me any problems.

This girl shows a surprising amount of spunk, lasting about seven seconds before looking down towards the blond beneath her feet. I open my mouth to spew my wisdom, and then she surprises me. "If she didn't lose, why is she under my foot?"

I stare at the girl with the brown-black braids and try to hide my shock behind an impassive face. The girl had said it in a taunting way, but she was still smarting off to _me_. A Victor. A teacher. A superior in every sense of the word. "She is not yet broken. She can still beat you. She still has the urge to beat you," I lean closer to her face and yank her chin up to meet my gaze, so our matching brown eyes are mere inches apart.

"She is still a threat," I insist, remembering my lessons at the Academy: the focus on winning, for my family and my District. This girl needed to learn to let go of attachment for the common good. Her learning compassion won't help her kill in the Arena. She can become loyal to something after a victory, or after she is thrown out of the Academy. Not before.

If I allowed her to think that loyalty was a strong quality trait, I would not be doing my job.

The girl tweaks her chin out of my grasp and very deliberately steps off her opponent. "She is going to stay a threat until I kill her," she mutters angrily, her lips puckering slightly in disgust at me.

"Exactly!" I snap, "she is a threat until she is dead!"

Both girls visibly start at this, Linder opens her mouth and snaps, "If I kill her now, we would have less of a pool to pull from to enter the Arena to win," she retorts from her seat on the floor. "Plus, we aren't competing. She is going in the year after me."

The _TWACK_ of my hand rings through the entire gym, but no one looks up, too preoccupied with wrestling to take notice of two girls getting spoken to. Linder finches but doesn't touch her smarting face. The younger one is staring at her feet, looking mildly contrite. I glare at the twin braids of the winner and turn on my heels to call the next exercise, deeming both girls adequately punished.

"She's my teammate! Why would I kill her?!"

The gym silences instantly. Her voice echoes and reverberates around the room as I pause. Several seconds tick by before I whirl back around, marching forward and jamming my finger into her chest as hard as I can manage. "No, you think she is your_ friend_. Friends are dangerous. Friends are what break you."

She steps back. I follow her. "Friends mean you are WEAK!" I glare into the little girls eyes, suddenly feeling something inside me tremble. She stumbles back as I shove her towards the center of the mat. My hand grabs her wrist, raising it and tightening until she gives a whimper and yanks her arm away. She clutches it to her chest, nursing a bruise that has already discoloring her pale skin.

"Now beat her," I command, stepping back and crossing her arms. "Punch her in the face."

"But-"

"Now," my tone is flat, emotionless.

"Lind-"

"Can you not hit your opponent?" I sneer at her, my voice taunting, and "Are you a sissy? She won't die, if that is what you're worried about. You are so weak that you couldn't even break her nose."

Linder is on her feet now, looking at both of us with a confused and uncomfortable expression.

"If you manage to get your act together to get into the Arena, what will you do when you have to kill your allies? Hmm? Actually, what about actually killing the other people _in_ the Arena? Or what if you and your District Partner are the last ones left? Will you just stare at him? Or run off and cry?"

The bottom lip is bloody from the excessive chewing on it, and a drop of blood is tracing down her chin as she stares at me. It is not a glare; it is simply a look of a young girl who is utterly being torn apart inside her head.

"I can assure you, he will not do the same thing. He will kill you. If he is particularly nice, he'll even do it quickly," I lean forward, ignoring the reflexive glimpse I get of my district partners' blood on my hands I as I was lifted into the hovercraft. "You are _weak_ and _pathetic._ You couldn't win the Hunger Games if everyone else was a toddler."

She stiffens and turns to look at Linder, certain anger in her eyes. I can almost see the wheels turning, justifying her next actions. _I cannot be weak. I must win. I am not weak. I cannot be weak. I must win. Honor. Glory. I want to be the one to live. _Her hand draws back, and Linder has just enough time to widen her eyes in shock before a powerful punch sends her flying into a wall behind her.

I turn away, but not in time to miss the wild look in the girl's eyes as she stares at her outstretched fist. She pulls her hand in and cradles it, as a little girl would cradle a doll. Saying 'as a little girl' is ridiculous though; for all extensive purposes, this girl _is _a little girl.

Only the Hunger Games are not an extensive purpose. If she is going to survive, this fault, this childhood fantasy that it is really just a Game, must be eradicated. Some would say I hate this girl and that I love the Capitol, but that is the opposite of the truth. I love this girl, and that is why I must break her. True, I just created a fragmented child who will heal into a damaged adult, but it is best this way. Broken bones heal stronger. This girl and I, we must be strong. Better not to care about the blood; better to focus on beating the Capitol at its own game, even if all you can manage to do is survive. Winning the Games is just making the best of a losing situation.

Clove staggers back and runs from the room. I do not follow her. I will not comfort her. If she is going to survive, she is going to need to learn to take care of herself.

* * *

**Reviews make my day! Thank you for reading!**


	6. Technician 37

**Review please!**

* * *

They_ were kids that I once knew. Now they're all dead hearts to you._

- _Dead Hearts by Stars_

* * *

**TECHNICIAN THIRTY-SEVEN**

I am very proud of my station.

Anyone would be proud to be in charge of one of the most highly productive units in the headset division, but I am especially pleased because _I_ basically took this shift from nothing and made it into one of the top ten operating rooms in all of Factory Number 17.

That took a lot of hard work on my part, overseeing my workers and expecting the utmost performance of them all day, every day. I had taken a bunch of school kids and turned them into machines of industry. They spent their free hours every day constructively, their spindly frames hunched over like a horde of spiders feeding on spare parts and spinning them into silver gadgets. They matter about to me as much as spiders do; fear keeps them ensconced in their dull grey little corners, and if any dares step out…well, one can always find another spider. This system works well, they work well, and I stand above them, yelling encouragement when someone is dawdling. Time is money.

And, at the moment, someone was wasting _my_ money.

"Hey!" I scream "HEY! Where is technician thirty-seven?" I glance around angrily, but the boy is nowhere to be seen. I slam my whip into my hand as my glare circles the mass of stations under me, "You there, tech thirty-six!"

The girl hunched over the station next to the vacant one looked up at me, craning her neck to see past my boots. She is tall, painfully skinny, and not pretty to look at, but this isn't about her. This is about the missing boy, the one who is supposed to be calibrating something-or-other about the headsets.

This shipment is important; people only think of the Hunger Games as entertainment, but thousands of technicalities need to be addressed every year. Like the thousands of headsets that are needed. Not just for the ceremonies, but the game makers, and those that speak, and citizens that buy the specialized ones that continually update you about the Hunger Games, all day, every day.

And on account of the missing tech, we are losing time, the time that has been allotted for creating the headsets. And if we don't meet quota, heads will roll. And it won't be just mine.

"Girl!"

"Yes?" she glares at me. I refrain from reminding her _who_ exactly has the control in this situation, because hurting this tech does nothing to help make up from the lack of thirty-seven.

"Where? Is? He?"

"Whom?"

I feel like grabbing her ungrateful neck and slamming her head into her console, but that, undoubtedly, would cost us more money. Training another tech at this busy time will not increase our output. Miffed by this fact, I take a deep breath and remind myself that after the Hunger Games, I can discipline her. She might even be reaped. "Technician thirty-seven."

She nods her head backwards, nimble fingers twisting silk thread thin wire continually. "He is right behind you."

I rise my eyebrow and my hand before I hear a soft, "Pardon me."

My startled spin reveals the missing youth. He is looking at me nervously, biting his lip. The grey walls of the factory make all the kids look pale, but this guy is especially so, almost like something from a nightmare.

"Where were you?" I bellow, trying to at least be civil.

"Peeing. Is there a law against that now too?" He seemed proud of himself for that little comeback.

I want to hit him….but that would slow down his production. So I settle for glaring at him and hissing, "Are you helping us meet quota?"

He shifts on his foot, looking at the grey metal grating. "You are in my seat."

"What was that?"

He looked at me, suddenly equal parts furious and terrified. "I would help quota more if you were not standing in my station."

That little brat…! "What was that?" I bark, leaning into his face so close that I can see my grey manager uniform reflecting in his brown eyes. He didn't flinch back, but he did manage to look dutifully terrified. "Did you just talk back to me, the man in charge of you?" I growl, suddenly feeling like my day was getting worse by the second. "Bad move, boy."

He squeaked. "May I sit down now? I'm wasting valuable working time."

I feel like throwing both these technicians out the window, but I don't, because that doesn't help output. I instead give him a deadly eye and stalk off along the catwalk, allowing him to step down into his station and began to quickly snapping small data chips in place. I pause, watching him start talking to tech thirty-six.

Feeling very spiteful, I turn on my headset and tune to the frequency to that of bug seventeen, where he is within the audio section. I know how the technicians _hate_ when their superiors bug them, and we don't do it often. It has a way of making them angry. Repressed people can be made to work. Angry people are harder to deal with. But I don't care; I want to get those two in trouble.

I can hear everything they say.

"Why do you put up with that?!" Tech thirty-six asks. My blood boils. That girl is in dead as soon as the quota is filled. "You let him run over you!"

"I don't want to die," he pauses, and I whirl around, pretending to continue stalking above my allotted workers.

She cuts in, "But don't you get angry? Don't you just want to-"

"Don't say that," he cuts in, obviously nervous with the way the conversation is going. "Didn't you hear me up there?! But I'm not about to do anything stupid."

"But-"

"Listen!" He hissed, and I obeyed. I was eager to hear this answer. "Look, I am not going to die rebelling against it. All you can do is keep your head down, try to survive. I have a job; my little sister is well on her way to getting one too. I am not going to give all that up."

I smile. This exchange, though it is nothing _bad_, will get them docked a month for indirectly badmouthing the Capital. And by the Capital, I mean its representative in this section, and that would be _me._

As soon as my face changed expression, I know my mistake. Silence filled the line. I had to school my feet not to pause. I had let them know I am listening. Those technicians have some system; if they think you're hearing them they send a signal and all stop talking.

Everything is so noiseless that a set of tweezers could drop and it would sound deafening. I glare around, unable to do anything but stand in the middle of the catwalk and strike my folded whip rhythmically against my hand.

Suddenly, the little mundane movements they make with their hands require all of their processing skills. The boy looks up at me, his eyes filled with terror, a pale upturned daisy amid a field of muddy brown hair. In the flourescent light, he looks sickly, as if he is wasting away here in this dank factory. I catch his line of sight and stare, allowing my lip to curl up into a grin. The technician quakes and watches in abject horror, his mouth opening slightly before quickly turning and looking at his hands.

He knows I've heard him.

Tech thirty-six noisily gulps and buries her head in her work even deeper. I stalk forward, until I am right in front of him, feet spaced apart. I tower above him, a wall of authority. "What was that?" I ask, my voice sweet. "Tech thirty-seven?"

He turns and looks up at me, his eyes so immense with panic for his family that I am sure that they will fall out of his head.

"Technician thirty-seven has been chosen to be placed on the developmental electronics department. Please have him report to his new station."

I freeze. The _developmental electronics department _was where all the smartest of district three go. They designed the programs that we used in everything. I look at him is disbelief. How is it that just as I manage to get him a pay dock, he gets to go _there_? He is the youngest on my shift! And I can't report him to his new officer; it is no secret that the commander who oversees them doesn't like me.

I jerk my head towards the door and step aside. He shakily rises to his feet and begins to walk, swaying slightly. As he slips past me, I growl "Watch yourself, Noah."

* * *

**I tried to give this guy a personality, and I hoped it worked! Thoughts, the good, the bad, and the ugly, are always loved!**


	7. Growing Up Just Right

**Sorry it took so long to update. Between Christmas and Finals, life got up and fled from me. I will probably edit this later, but for now, I just wanted to put this up for you guys to look at. See any mistakes? If so, please shoot me a review so I can tweak them!**

* * *

_They were kids that I once knew. Now they're all dead hearts to you._

- _Dead Hearts by Stars_

* * *

**GROWING UP JUST RIGHT**

My daughter is growing up.

It seems that just yesterday that she was a baby, sleeping in my arms, or a toddler, stumbling about the small garden we keep out back. As I step up onto the sagging porch and into the living space covered in sawdust, I am met by a different scene. She stands in the dead center of the small cabin, hands cupped around her mouth, saying something in the deepest voice her tiny five year old frame can muster.

"Why are you being so loud?" My wife asked from her place standing in the kitchen, holding our son in a tattered receiving blanket in one arm.

"I was practicing," the little girl states it very seriously, as if her caterwauling was indeed something of value.

"Practicing?" my wife asked, glancing down from the bundle swaddled in her arms to her upturned freckled face. "What are you practicing for?"

"Practicing to be a logger!" she stepped back, hitched her shoulders, and held her hands out like she was clutching an invisible ax. She swung, hollering "TIMBER!"

"Missy, are you going to yell all night?" I question as I shut the door behind me. She hurries over and raises her face, expecting the kiss I bestow on her forehead. My wife glances at me after I instruct the girl to do something quieter, a questioning look in her eyes. She nods towards our daughter, now contently sitting on the floor and talking animatedly to her doll, and mouths _firewood_.

I glance at the two blond braids, but see the image of the baby in my arms again. Absentminded I nod back to my wife. I ask "Do you want to help me, little missy?"

I watched her little eyes light up. She loves watching me split wood. Part of me is glad that she enjoyed it; the practical part of me knows it will be easier for her to toil for the rest of her life if she loved what she did. The side of me that tells her bedtime stories and dances with her at weddings wants her to have childhood were all she does is go to school and play.

But that isn't going to happen, so I take her outside, trying not to grin as she hikes her faded brown dress up past her knees to run faster. She is a darling girl, the best little girl anyone could ever ask for; mature and thoughtful while maintaining a sense of wonder. My daughter is just like her mama.

She is growing up. The thought dries the smile off my face. She is five; after splitting wood, what next? Cutting trees? Working in the camps? I mull over these thoughts as I follow her to the pile of logs.

By the time I reach the chopping block, she is already struggling to carry a chunk of wood from the pile. I help her, toting the wood we need for the chilly fall evening. Once it is positioned, she runs off to the side like she is supposed to as I step up to swing. My daughter gathers the small kindling chips while I set up for each swing, placing each piece in her skirt while singing a song at the top of her lungs.

I lost myself in my memories until I hear her voice "Pa?"

"Yes?"

"How much wood are you cutting?" she asks. I know it is her polite way of trying to get back inside, where she can smell the soup cooking.

I glance at the log I have on the chopping block, then I look at her. I scrub sweat from my brow and come to a decision. "Do you want to split this one?"

She grins and kneels to the ground, depositing the gathered sticks into a neat heap, then hurries over to me. I show her where to place her tiny hands. At five, she is hardly ready to swing a grown man's ax, so I kneel behind her, my fingers grasping her tiny ones. Her effort was better than I imagined, but I directed the ax a little bit so it would strike the wood in the center.

The log broke in three perfect pieces, and she gathered them up and went running to the house, hollering about 'chopping logs with pa!' I chuckle, gathering the rest and carting them to the house. She is growing up; maybe I should get her one of her own.

The next day I wake her up before school. I do not answer her bleary questions as I attempt to pull her hair out of her face, staring at the mess of blond tresses and pale blue ribbons I create in guilt. Her mother makes this look so easy, but it cannot be helped. I am too excited to show her the gift I obtained. I lead her outside with covered eyes and walk towards the edge of the porch.

My sleepy daughter is now a bit more awake than before, curiosity encouraging her to squirm. "Daddy, what is it?"

"You'll see missy. Just a second."

She moves impatiently in her nightgown, her bare toes curling on the hardwood. "Daddy, why are we outside?"

"You'll see in a bit," I stare down at the top of her head, then to the small hatchet I traded for yesterday. I had carved the handle last night, etching beautiful flowers on the wooden heft and polishing the blade. Feeling my daughter's impatience, I slowly removed my hands from her face.

She stood, mesmerized at the little ax. She reached out, then pulled her hand back suddenly, knowing full well our family's rules about touching tools. He eyes got round as she looked up at me. "May I touch it?"

"It's yours little missy," I nudge her forward towards her first instrument of tree destruction. Small hands reach out, and she clutches the handle and looks up at me, pleading. I know her question before her mouth can formulate the words and answer it. "Yes, we can go cut some kindling."

Instead of racing off to tell her mother, she reaches out to place her gift against the rickety porch railing and leaps towards me, arms clutching me around the middle, face buried in my stomach. "Thank you Pa, oh thank you Pa, oh thank you Pa, oh thank you Pa!" she arches her neck to look up at me a grins ecstatically.

"You're welcome," I grab her up in my arms and step into the tiny yard. I spin her, beaming as she laughs. "You, little missy, are very much welcome."

She giggles and kicks her legs. I see in the corner of my eye my wife standing on the porch, tiny baby in her arms still asleep, and I am the happiest man alive. I have a beautiful daughter who is growing up just right, and a wife whose smiles are heaven, and a son who is perfectly healthy. I am blessed, despite the poverty I live in, despite everything, I am the luckiest man alive.

"I love you Leigh."

"I love you too Pa."

* * *

**Complaints? Complements? Hit the button below!**


	8. Spinner of Stories

**Hey all! The verdict is still out for me in this section. I feel the tense might be a bit wrong in places; if you catch anything, let me know. I want to make these as polished as possible, and since I am beta-less, you all get to be proofreaders:/ I'm sorry for the inconvenience my lack of grammar prowess might cause! **

* * *

_They were kids that I once knew. Now they're all dead hearts to you._

- _Dead Hearts by Stars_

* * *

**SPINNER OF STORIES**

Along with being a spinner of yarn, my best friend is a spinner of stories.

She told adventure stories to us while we walked to shifts at the factory. My best friend really got into the stories she told too. Her deep brown eyes sparkled as she would brush a stray curl back behind her ear and her voice would get dramatic before she began a tale. Every time we walked to work she would begin another chapter of the tale, and we would be a captive audience for a mile, until we reached the noise of the factory or the first people had to peel off to their rooms.

Everyone loved her. She was nothing particularly special; her hair was curly, true, but other than that she was just a normal factory worker in a worn sweater and faded green skirt. My best friend was not particularly brave or daring, nothing like the heroes in her stories. They were always championing justice and saving people and protecting their family and friends. Her heroes are unlike anyone that any of us had ever known in our grey world of angry people and fiber floating through the musty air.

Her part for today was ending. Our main character, Charles, was sitting in front of his house, holding a rifle and protecting his family from the circling wolves that wanted to tear into his home and devour his children and wife. The storyteller gave a devilish grin, ending with "More tomorrow."

"What happens next? Oh, do tell us a little more!"

"Just a bit more?"

"Please?!"

"Tomorrow," she repeated, brown eyes sparkling mischievously, "Before shift I'll tell you what happens."

"Tomorrow? Tomorrow is the _Reaping_," a 13-year-old girl with brown braids named Amy whispered, her eyes getting wide with terror.

My best friend smiled reassuringly. "You're young; only in there five times. I doubt you'll be picked."

That does little to ease nerves. There is always a chance you'll be picked, but friend doesn't seem to care to outside observers. Her curls bobbing as she lets her hair out of her bun and crosses her arms over her chest, warding off a nonexistent chill defiantly; only I hear the tremor in her voice. "Then I'll tell you an _extra_-_long_ part the next day. But you can't come over today to hear more. Your families will want to see you."

She doesn't elaborate. We all know what she hasn't said, _because they might not get to see you after tomorrow_.

One by one, the girls turn off to go to their apartments, climbing rickety flights of stairs and walking though narrow doors till only she and I remain, hurrying down the street under billows of steam expelled from the factories far away. She smiles at me, shivering. "Man, it is freezing out here."

"You are always cold," I retort, snorting. "I think that you would be cold even if you were in an oven."

She laughs a full, throaty sound that seems as exuberant as possible. "Probably."

The shadows grow longer as we near our building. "Are you nervous about tomorrow?"

She turns to look at me under the orange aura of a lamppost, rubbing her arms with her hands and shrugs. I know that shrug. That means she has more to say.

Silence fill the space between us as we reach the stoop to our building, the creaking door slamming behind us as we begin to climb the steep steps. "I figure," she begins to speak, pausing to catch her breath on the third landing, "that if I get….well, then I was meant to. I have no say in the matter."

I stare at her flippancy as I feel tears bubbling up my throat. Her peace with the situation is terrifying to me. "I am petrified."

"So am I. Just don't think about it. Tomorrow can worry about itself," Her mouth twitches and she waves as I reach my tenant. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

She obviously didn't heed her own advice to wait to continue till after the train, because she asks her customary question the next morning as we walked toward the square. "Do you remember where we were?"

"He was standing by the door and watching the wolves pacing outside the ring of the fire light," a boy declared.

"All he could see was flashes of their eyes!" added another.

"He knew if they all jumped they would get him, but so far all they did was pace and howl eerily…"

"Oh, right!" she gives a pale version of her usual smile, one tainted by fear, "How silly of me to forget."

And she begins, weaving a tale so perfect and elegant in her words that I feel myself losing myself in it. I am afraid, but for Charles, not for myself. He is sitting, with one shot in his gun to protect his family. Then his daughter comes out, startled by the noise of the beasts. She is not afraid, because he is her father, and in her mind her father can protect her from anything. Charles is not so sure, sitting with his gun in his hands and his daughter at his side. She is surprised that he is scared, and he tells her that everyone gets scared sometimes, even him.

We are in the complex, so she smiles, ending the story for now. "I'll tell you more tomorrow."

"Nothing will happen to him!" the youngest girl declares with conviction. "Charles will protect them, 'cause he always does."

I nod as she looks at me. "He won't let anything happen to them."

My best friend smiles. "You'll have to find out more tomorrow. But, between you and me, I don't think that anything _really_ bad will happen. I think Charles loves his family too much to not defend them with every breath he has."

The little girl glances to the stage with trepidation, "I wish he was here. He wouldn't let the Hunger Games happen."

I can't help but agree, but I merely propel her in the direction of registration. My finger is pricked, and then I am shuffled into a row next to my best friend. She clutches my hand. It is clammy, but I do not shy away. Today is the Reaping. I'd let almost anyone hold my hand.

A pasty hand plunges into the bowl, and takes a slip of paper out. A name is read, then repeated.

Time freezes and I turn to my best friend, standing, pale, curls blowing in the wind, brown eyes wide, and mouth open. She stares back at me, slowly backing away and letting my hand fall to my side. I watch her glance up at the sky and shiver, despite the heat. My throat fills with tears as she begins to ascend the platform.

Mind is in a haze, all I can think is I will never hear the end of this story, because _my friend_ is ending.

Our hero is never going to survive, because our spinner of tales is not going to come home. Savannah is going away from me. And deep in my gut, I know it is forever.

* * *

**Anyone notice the other series I shamelessly shoved in there? It shouldn't be _too_ hard to find:) Well, any thoughts, or ideas for my next installment? Thanks for reading! **


	9. A Strange Sense of Honor

**School is the bane of my existence. I hope I am never forced to take such an absence again (knock on wood)! **

* * *

_They were kids that I once knew. Now they're all dead hearts to you._

- _Dead Hearts by The Stars_

* * *

**A Strange Sense of Honor**

I spit a mouthful of sunflower seeds out and glower at the shed. Stupid-trash kid stole some food during my inspection. Tattle-tale footprints gave away the thief, as well as video surveillance tape. Unfortunately, the crook had hidden his face. All I saw was the back of some head, snitching some apples. Some lazy dumb person, to unintelligent to work for a living, stole part of his failed quota back to feed his family. I growl and slam my fist into the storeroom walls. The slam causes my headache to intensify and I grimace, a dirty hand rising to scratch my forehead as I damn my bad luck.

It is simple to me: work, get paid. If you don't work, you don't eat. It makes sense to any person with a normal brain capacity. You can't expect some backwater dirt farmer to understand that though. Probably thought it was unfair to be punished for being a sluggish bum. Now, because some idiot decided to act all uppity and disrupt the chain of command, I was going to have to _investigate_ this mess, and right before my shift ended too. That put a crimp in my plans. I am supposed to get off after this inspection, but now I have to go question some retard who will lie to me anyway.

I swallow a swig from my flask and march toward the bin, reading the name. _Fay_. Well, easy enough. I'll just go question this Fay and get on with my evenings adventures. I can whip him before it gets too much later, and I can go back to my barracks. Jenkins said he had a couple girls to bring over, and it was pay day…all I had to do was find the criminal, and I could go spend some time with some lovely ladies.

With that happy thought in my mind, I march out, eager to confront the fiend. My legs buckle for some reason and then I'm sprawled out on the dirt outside the warehouse, cursing a blue streak as the rest of my brandy spilled in front of me. It evaporates so fast there is almost steam. Dumb heat. Blasted drought. Makes the workers mumble, makes quotas fail, makes bosses angry. And angry bosses mean less pay. Less pay means less breaks and more transfers.

I lurch to my feet and keep staggering to the quarters of this Fay.

The room is so dang dark all I can see is shining pairs of eyes for a second. My foot cracks something and I manage to trip on a table before I can discern the people inside. An old woman is standing by a fire, stirring some mush in a dented pot. Her face swims in and out of focus annoyingly so that I cannot pin her features to anyone I can recall. A man crouches on a three-legged stool with a young girl on his lap, probably a granddaughter or something. He doesn't stand up to give me the respect I deserve, and I hate him all the more for it. A little boy is hunkered in the corner, tracing in the dirt with his fingers. I know he's the thief; no one else in this trashy hovel could get into the warehouse quick enough to evade _me_.

"Is 'his the house offay?" I demand, leaning heavily on a nearby wall. It was a terrible entrance; my darn tongue isn't working right on account of all the alcohol.

They all look at me in fear and disgust.

"ANSWER!" I shout, only realizing how it hurts my head _after_ the sound leaves my lips.

It startles them into speaking. "No, it is not," the old man says, in an irritating tone, as if he is talking down to me.

I gaze around again and see the criminal in the corner and smile. Kid didn't even try to hide. My evening isn't ruined after all. "'e's a thief. He's gonna have ta be whipped. Now."

"I didn't steal anything," he says shortly.

Little brat. "I saw yon the cameras. You're coming with me."

"I didn't steal anything," he repeats, louder this time. The declaration bounces around in my head so hard it takes me a minute to realize he just _argued _with me.

I haul him to his feet, "What…" I trail off, anger causing me to be unable to form words "did you just say?"

He pulls away from me a bit. "I didn't do _nothing_," he responds, jerking away from my grip.

I keep a hold on him though, and shake him. "You little-" I start, and then I get a brilliant idea. If this whelp won't confess with the proper respect, I'll make him pay.

They don't even move past the door frame until I have the old man tied to the whipping post. They just stare, until the first crack shatters the evening stillness in the quarter. Then the old woman begins to scream. Her shrieks are like a hammer in my poor head, and it makes me swing harder, faster. The boy rushes out and tries to get my attention, pulling on my arm until I stumble. Strong little runt, being able to pull a full-grown Peacekeeper over at his age. The problem is over in short order; I slam the butt of the whip into his face and he falls into the dust at my side. Not one of the people around stops me. Everyone fears me. Like they should. I am in control. Like I should be.

All is right in the world.

I lose count of the lashes, only stopping when I notice that the blood is spreading dangerously close to my white boots. Then I step back, panting. The old woman scrambles forward, sobbing and trying to rouse the man with her hands. He doesn't move. Proud idiot never even yelled before he died.

I glare at the boy. "Bury it before it starts to smell kid."

"Thresh."

"What?" I pause and look at him, wondering what the heck he just said.

"Not _it_;" the voice is haunting, so ripe with something my foggy head can't quiet discern. "Thresh. Like me."

* * *

**Comments? Requests for the next snapshot? Review so your voice can be heard! Thanks for reading.**


End file.
